


Wheel of Prompts

by Tedronai



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Age of Legends, Alternate Universe - Various, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-25 12:56:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 12,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tedronai/pseuds/Tedronai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Excuse the cheesy title.</p><p>Cross-posting random unrelated prompt fills that aren't long enough or complete enough to stand on their own, from Tumblr. Various ships and characters; both canon-compatible and AU scenarios.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Asmodean & Lanfear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Lanfear and Asmodean on the Titanic.

The ship was said to be unsinkable. Stuck in the great ballroom, one of several such (because _obviously_ any self-respecting ship needed at least half a dozen ballrooms), drinking overpriced champagne and listening to the inane prattling of his peers (socially, not professionally), Joar Addam Nessosin begins to consider testing how true that statement would hold with a beam of balefire through the hull. Also, would the balefire remove the entire ship out of the Pattern (that might be somewhat more inconvenient than he wants to be dealing with) or just the elements it touched? The question seems infinitely more interesting than whom Telamon is presently fucking or who will inherit the vast fortune of the Morin family if (as seems increasingly likely by the year) Tedronai tires of his life before begetting an heir.

Then, suddenly, like in a bad romantic drama, she stands before him, a vision in white, diamonds in her black hair sparkling like stars in the night sky, her eyes dark enough to pull a man in like a black hole, her smile like a frost-coated razor’s edge, ready to draw blood. “Joar,” she says, and for a moment Joar pities all the men (and women) who have ever compared her voice to a sweet melody because they were too blinded by her light to hear the dissonance of all-consuming vanity.

"Mierin," he replies, too casually, too obviously trying to hide his dismay at her appearance, and her blood-red smile widens a fraction. He looks around (anything to avoid her eyes for a moment) as though looking for someone he knows very well isn’t there. "I can’t see Lews. He has retired for the night?"

He could scarce think it possible, but her smile turns even colder (that is one way in which Mierin could always outdo herself). “If you want to make it through the night with your manhood intact,” she says sweetly, “you may want to try another subject.”

Joar flinches; his comment _was_ intended to sting, but he may have overdone it a bit. He mumbles an apology (graciously accepted with a curt nod and a wave of an immaculately manicured, white hand) and tosses back the rest of his drink. Whoever is playing the grand piano in the corner could do with a year or ten of more lessons before being allowed to play to a decent audience, a detached part of his mind (one that is not occupied with detracting Mierin’s wrath) notes idly.

She sighs, clearly unimpressed. “Walk with me.”

She leads him by the arm (he wishes she would stop touching him without consent) out of the ballroom, out to the upper deck, to the crisp, bright night air. There’s a scent of ice in the air, a sense of finality, of something ending.

"What are we doing here?" he asks, shivering; being able to ignore the cold is not the same as not feeling it.

"Lews Therin will be passed out soon enough," she says, turning away from him. The sheer white silk shawl falls off her shoulders, revealing the smooth, perfect skin that would set any other man’s heart beating faster. Any man who didn’t know her, at least. "I made sure of that. Forkroot in his wine."

"Really?" Joar asks, bot bothering to affect more than mild interest.

"They will not find him in time," Mierin continues, addressing the dark waters overboard.

"What… do you mean?" Joar asks, not entirely sure he wants to know, not when Mierin is like this. Too many questions right now could get a man killed. Or worse.

Mierin turns back to him, the black holes where her eyes should be sucking in all the light, all the warmth, leaving the night colder and emptier than it has any right to be this close to the celebrating crowd. She is no longer smiling (and her lipstick has never looked so much like blood, Joar almost wants to ask who she has bitten). “You can smell the ice, can’t you?” Her voice is light, almost flippant, and the dissonance of cruelty sounds to Joar like nails on a blackboard, making him feel ill. “When we crash, they’ll just assume he has Travelled to safety. Nobody will have any reason to think otherwise; he’s an Aes Sedai.”

"Mierin…"

That’s as far as he gets before the impact.


	2. Mat/Demandred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mat/Demandred, Demandred realizes the Light general isn't Rand.

The battlefield was alive.

Demandred had always appreciated a good match — on the battlefield, in a duel, in a debate, in a dance, in bed — and the general commanding the armies of the Light was among the best he had ever faced. This was surprising, and not least because it was not Lews Therin — the one called the Dragon Reborn in this age was fighting his own battle against the Great Lord in Shayol Ghul — and it meant that one born of this Age, one of these uncivilised, unsophisticated barbarians was holding his own against Demandred, the greatest general of either this Age or the previous, perhaps of all Ages.

The movements of the troops were the steps in an intricate dance of life and death; each move, feint, countermove treading the fine line between a caress and a blow; each gamble, each chance taken a whispered endearment and an obscenity, setting his blood on fire. This young general, this Cauthon, was a worthy match and whatever the result of the battle — here or at Shayol Ghul — Demandred was glad that he had been given the chance to face him.

He only wished he could see his opponent’s face when it ended, when one of them was finished and the other would walk away the victor to live the rest of his life knowing there would never be another who could match him.


	3. Lan/Nynaeve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Imagine Lan- huge, stonefaced warrior Lan- holding a tiny baby who wraps their whole tiny hand around his pinky._  
>  (Okay so that wasn't a prompt, strictly speaking, but it resulted in a mini fic anyway so I'm treating it as such.)

Lan Mandragoran wept when the child was placed in his arms. His child, his firstborn, the heir to the kingdom of Malkier. He had known all his life that he could never marry, never have a family, that his only legacy would be a war that could not be won. But he had married the most wonderful woman in all of Creation. The war had been won. And now…

And now he was holding his tiny newborn son in his arms and his heart, unused to containing such happiness, felt close to bursting from sheer joy.

He looked at Nynaeve, who was lying on the bed, propped up against the pillows, exhausted but smiling. Even with sweat matting her dark hair she was the most beautiful woman Lan had ever laid his eyes on. She made no mockery of his tears; she understood. The Warder bond between them was overflowing with love, at once fierce and impossibly gentle.

He placed the baby carefully back in her arms and, climbing into the wide bed next to her, drew her into an embrace. Holding thus the two most important pieces of his life, everything in the world felt finally right.


	4. Ishamael

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Ishamael and Ba'alzamon; insanity.  
> (Yes, this took some mental gymnastics seeing as Ba'alzamon _was_ Ishamael...)

_1183 AB_

He awakes to find the world at war. Over a thousand years have passed since he last walked the earth and he can barely remember why that is, but the chaos and destruction feels natural to him. Perhaps it is all he has ever known.

The hordes of shadowspawn call him Ba’alzamon, and he is distantly aware that this is not a name he has used before but he finds it fitting enough. He finds the people of this Age willing enough to serve him, their little minds all but begging to be controlled, to be led screaming into the abyss. He finds them in the hearts of the primitive nations of this new world, in the White Tower itself, and when he gives an order, it is carried out with fervent zeal.

_Manetheren must fall._

This is the order he gives to the women calling themselves Aes Sedai, the Black Ajah. The Amyrlin Seat, Tetsuan, is not one of them but takes the fall anyway, betraying Manetheren over petty jealousy. No histories ever write about the Keeper of the Chronicles, whose whispered remarks fanned that jealousy to life.

* * *

 

_972 FY_

The next time he wakes, there is peace. He is Ishamael, the Betrayer of Hope, called Ba’alzamon by some, originally named yet something else but he cannot recall what that might have been. In this Age, he takes on the name of Jalwin Moerad.

It takes very little effort to gain the ear of Artur Hawkwing, little more to convince him to dismiss the Aes Sedai from his court, from his Empire. From there it is but a small step to laying siege to Tar Valon itself… And peace is no more. Ishamael watches Jalwin Moerad’s influence drive the great High King further and further into madness even as he continues to pull the strings, the very threads that make up the Pattern, setting in motion ripples that would become waves, a storm, a tsunami.

A whisper into an insane monarch’s ear.

On a distant continent, a woman sells her soul and crafts the first _a’dam_.

The Pattern is changed forever.

* * *

 

_983 NE_

Something is different this time; he can feel it the moment he opens his eyes. He is the Lord of the Evening, the Heart of the Dark, the Father of Lies, and his ancient adversary, the one called the Dragon, has been Reborn.

This time, all of Creation will go up in flames. This time, he shall slay the Great Serpent and end Time itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“And then, shall the Lord of the Evening come. And He shall take our eyes, for our souls shall bow before Him, and He shall take our skin, for our flesh shall serve Him, and He shall take our lips, for only Him will we praise. And the Lord of the Evening shall face the Broken Champion, and shall spill his blood and bring us the Darkness so beautiful. Let the screams begin, O followers of the Shadow. Beg for your destruction!”_  
>  —The Prophecies of the Shadow


	5. Lews Therin/Mierin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mierin and Lews; vacation.

The sun was high on the sky by the time Lews woke up. At a quick glance he discovered that he was alone in the hotel room. Mierin must have gone out without waking him. He was equal parts annoyed — they were supposed to be on a vacation _together_ , after all — and glad because, well, he _had_ needed the sleep after dancing until the break of dawn and Mierin likely wouldn’t have managed to wake him much earlier if she’d tried. He got out of bed and put on a dressing robe…

And then he noticed that the door to the balcony was open. Through the sheer curtains he could see a slender figure dressed in white leaning casually on the railing. The bright midsummer sunlight didn’t do her justice, but she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in any lighting, and he couldn’t help a foolish smile as he stepped out to the balcony. “Morning.”

She smiled back. “I thought you were going to sleep all day,” she replied.

"That sounds tempting," he admitted. "Will you come back to bed with me?"

She laughed, a sound like silver bells, and gave him a long, provocative look. “I’ll consider it,” she said. “I made a reservation for late breakfast in… half an hour. We don’t want to miss that.”

"Half an hour," he repeated. "Plenty of time."

She snorted softly. “Not if you were going to _sleep_.”

"Well, that’s… negotiable."

She laughed again and walked over, closing the distance between them. “Negotiable?” she murmured, sliding her hands up his bare chest under the robe. “I think I enjoy negotiating with you.”

"You are quite the diplomat," he agreed readily.

She swept the robe off his shoulders, letting it wall to the floor, completely uncaring of the possibility that they might be seen out on the balcony. She merely gave him a wicked smile when he tried to glance around to see if they had an audience. Then she grasped a fistful of his hair and pulled his head down for a kiss. Her body molded against his perfectly, alive beneath the thin layer of smooth silk that was her dress, and his body responded to the contact in a very obvious way. She chuckled against his lips—

And giggled with delight as he picked her up and carried her to bed.

They missed the breakfast reservation after all, but once they realised it, neither of them could honestly say they minded too much.


	6. Elan Morin & Lews Therin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Elan & Lews; dreams.

The dream was the same he had had for six nights running. As a Dreamer he knew it was significant — had known after the first time — but interpreting it was another matter entirely. This annoyed him; he was usually good at interpreting the dreams, especially his own. He hadn’t felt this off balance in several decades, and he didn’t like the feeling.

He sat up and lit a cigarette and, after some indecision, channelled at the callbox.

It was not yet morning, but Lews Therin answered promptly. “Elan? What is it?”

Elan grimaced at the worried note in his friend’s voice; both Lews and Barid always seemed to expect the worst when he called. “I’m fine,” he said curtly. “It’s just that there have been dreams, and I haven’t been able to decipher them yet but I think you should be aware that something is—”

He cut off at the sound of a commotion at Lews’ end. The newly elected First swore under his breath, and then Elan could hear him issuing orders and others replying with something Elan couldn’t quite make out. Lews didn’t end the call, however, and his curiosity piqued, Elan stayed on the line. Once the commotion died down, he spoke again. “Lews? You still there? What’s going on?”

There was a heavy sigh and a long pause before Lews replied. “Your dream,” he said dully. “You’re not the only one, you know. Several of the most talented Dreamers in the Hall have been reporting disturbing dreams as of late. And I think…” He trailed off helplessly, and Elan could almost see the look of disbelief on his face as he continued, “Collam Daan is gone. The whole university. There was an accident, an experiment gone wrong at the Sharom. They’re looking for survivors, but there’s no way anyone could have survived…”

The whole university of Collam Daan. Gone, just like that. Elan shivered. “Lews, I’m so sorry,” he began, but words couldn’t possibly contain the scale of the disaster.

Lews sighed again, but when he spoke again there was a layer of steel beneath the shocked disbelief in his voice. He was already regrouping, his mind was already working on a plan of action, how to mitigate the damage to the extent that was possible. “I think that’s your disaster,” he said tiredly. “I’ve got to go, Elan, there will be a lot to do…”

"Of course," Elan replied. "Just let me know if there’s anything I can do."

"Thank you. I really appreciate it."

And then Lews ended the call and Elan was left staring at the callbox, wrapped in a silence that felt almost unbearably loud. _I think that’s your disaster_ , Lews had said. Elan would have liked to believe that — this was certainly disaster enough for a lifetime. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was nowhere near the worst of what was to come…


	7. Asmodean & Semirhage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this one was actually a picture; [see here](http://pettymotives.tumblr.com/post/84844744330/asmo-being-super-polite-to-semirhage-because-she).

Joar Addam Nessosin — Asmodean, as he was supposed to call himself now — had tried to arrive to the meeting before the appointed time, to familiarise himself with the premises, just in case. Unfortunately, it turned out that he was not the only one who had thought of that. These Chosen sure were a paranoid bunch… Well, obviously they had their reasons.

As luck would have it, one of them arrived precisely at the same time as he. His heart sank when he recognised the distinct figure of the one called Semirhage, formerly known as Nemene Damendar Boann, one of the most skilled Restorers of the age, whose… appetites… ran towards things other than Healing. Although apparently the arts of Healing and torture were closely related. She had told him a great deal about it, the last time they had met. A great deal more than he had ever wanted to know about the technical points of either torture _or_ Healing.

Her brisk strides brought her to his side as he reached the door. She gave him not a glance in greeting — but he knew he had been noticed, identified, most likely mentally dissected… and _that_ was not a mental image he had needed, at all.

The smile he managed was probably more than a little shaky, but he held his ground and hurried to open the door for her. “My lady,” he murmured with a brief bow.

Her dark eyes flickered to him and one immaculate eyebrow rose in amusement. But she said nothing as she glided past, and she didn’t seem offended.

Thank the Light for that. Or… whatever the servants of the Great Lord thanked for such things. Asmodean leaned on the wall as he watched her go, taking deep breaths to calm his racing pulse. He was in no hurry to follow her.


	8. Lanfear/Rand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Rand x Lanfear AU in which Rand DID join Lanfear as her lover during TFoH.

The dust slowly settled and Moiraine was able to see the young man standing in the center of the devastation — _no_ , she corrected herself; he might be Rand al’Thor, but he was no longer _young_. His blue-grey eyes were alight with power, and although Moiraine couldn’t feel _saidin_ any more than any woman could, she knew he was holding enough of the Power to lay waste to the city around them and then some more. Two more figures emerged through the gateway behind him; she recognised both, Lanfear and the man she suspected was Asmodean, but she could barely take her eyes off the Dragon Reborn.

"…Rand?" she asked, her mouth suddenly dry.

Those too-old eyes fixed on her and she thought the very weight of that gaze might crush her bones. The voice that spoke, deep and resonant, was barely recognisable as the young man Moiraine had known not all that long ago. “I am called Lews Therin Telamon,” he said. “I am the Dragon.”


	9. Elayne/Aviendha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Elayne x Aviendha, college exchange student/study abroad roommates.

"So… you’re not going home for the holidays?" Elayne asked, looking at her roommate. Aviendha sat cross-legged on Elayne’s bed, watching as the blond girl tried to wrestle the suitcase closed. Was she really going to need all these clothes? But which ones would she leave out? No. She could make it all fit.

"No," Aviendha replied. "We don’t celebrate your Winternight, and the trip to the Threefold Land is so long it’s easier to remain here."

Elayne nodded. “Fair enough.” She frowned at the suitcase. Maybe if she sat on top of it? “Everyone else is going, though. Well, most people. Egwene and Nynaeve, certainly. They like their family holidays, in the Two Rivers. I’m not sure about Faile, it’s a long way to Saldaea, too, and the snow sometimes cuts the train connections up there…”

Aviendha shook her head. “No, she said she was going.” The redhead grinned suddenly. “She said if the trains are not running, she’s going to have her father to pick her up by horse sleigh.”

"Well, I could believe that of the Basheres." Elayne hesitated. She had been planning for this moment, but now that she had the chance, she suddenly felt… shy? Light! Elayne Trakand was _not_ shy! “Why don’t you come home with me?”

Aviendha stared at her, blue-green eyes startled. “I don’t celebrate your Winternight,” she said slowly. “I wouldn’t wish to impose upon your family.”

"You wouldn’t be imposing!" Elayne hurried to assure her. "My mother would love to meet you, and I’m sure you and Gawyn would get along!"

"I don’t have any presents for anybody," Aviendha said again, but the resolution in her voice was fading.

"Avi, it doesn’t matter!" Elayne abandoned her effort with the suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed, facing her friend. "We’re not super fanatic about the holiday or anything." She grinned, reaching out to brush fiery curls back from the other woman’s face. "And even if we were, I should hope we’re decent enough people that we’d know to take into account that your culture doesn’t celebrate it."

Aviendha caught her hand and held it in both of hers, examining the nails (Elayne had just had them done with the white rose motif of Andor). “Elayne…”

"If you think you’ll be uncomfortable, I don’t want to pressure you," Elayne hurried to add. "You won’t offend me if you say no. But if you’d like to come… if you’d maybe… I dunno, like to see my homeland a bit… know that you’d be more than warmly welcome!" She nearly winced, hearing the tone of her own voice. Light, she was behaving like a 13-year-old with a crush!

"Elayne," Aviendha repeated, and Elayne looked back to her. The blue-green eyes (like the ocean, like fine jewels, Light, she had never seen anything so beautiful!) were sparkling with joy. "I would love to see your homeland."

Elayne felt a goofy grin spreading across her face but she didn’t try to hold it back. “That’s the best gift you could have given me!”

Aviendha grinned back. “Come, I’ll help you with that suitcase.” And then, mischievously, “And then you can help me pack if you want us to catch the train!”

 


	10. Demandred/Moridin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Demandred/Moridin; "Where are you?!"

Demandred must have dozed off (damn the limitations of the human body) because one moment he was watching his former friend sleep like a dead thing, and the next… he opens his eyes and blinks dumbly at the empty bed.

"…Moridin?" he says quietly, the new name still awkward in his mouth. No response. He stands up and looks around; the room is empty besides him. At least there’s a door this time, he thinks sourly. In the Blight Fortress that is not necessarily a given. He wanders into the hallway, as eerily empty as he has ever seen, trying not to hurry his steps. "Dammit, Elan. Where _are_ you?!”

It’s been two days since Moridin first woke up in the new body, and so far Demandred isn’t sure the resurrection process was worth the effort. He isn’t sure why he’s making such an effort to keep the man alive nonetheless. He doesn’t much want to explore his motivations, either. The Chosen are not supposed to _care_ for one another.

He’s running by the time he gets to the battlements. He almost doesn’t notice the slim figure in black leaning on the wall in the shade of the watchtower. In the rush of relief he almost calls out Elan’s name… but catches himself in time. “Moridin?” he calls out instead.

The other man turns and smiles faintly; the smile doesn’t reach the blue eyes. “Demandred.” His voice is deeper than Elan’s used to be. He’s taller and more athletic and sporting a healthy tan even now, and his eyes are blue, but he’s so much more Elan than Ishamael was for decades before the sealing (let alone after) that Demandred’s heart aches at the sight of him.

Demandred approaches him, trying to appear casual. “Nice view.”

"Fitting."

Fitting for what? Demandred doesn’t ask.

Silence.

"You do realise that it would be pointless?" Moridin asks after a while.

"What so?" Demandred replies.

"Trying to kill myself." So matter-of-fact he might have been talking about weather. "The Great Lord has use for me. No rest for the wicked…" A fraction of a smile twists his mouth again. "Not until the Last Battle is done."

"That’s…" Demandred isn’t sure how to finish the sentence. That’s too bad? Not likely.

Moridin seems to read his mind (much like Elan always used to, and damn does that thought hurt more than it has any right to after all these years) and reaches out to lay a hand on Demandred’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Demandred covers the hand with his own, squeezing lightly. He isn’t quite sure afterwards which of them initiated the hug, but the next thing he knows he’s in Moridin’s arms, holding on to his former friend as though his life, or perhaps both their lives depended on it.

 


	11. Moridin/Rand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Moridin/Rand; exboyfriends AU

"Remind me again, whose idea of ‘neutral ground’ was the very place where we met?" Moridin mutters. It’s not really a greeting but it’s all he can think of as the gorgeous ginger stops before him, looking almost as awkward as Moridin feels.

"Um," Rand — ever the eloquent one — replies. "Yours, actually?" He flashes a half-hearted smile. "I didn’t realise it was supposed to be neutral, though, or I’d have suggested something else."

"Never mind." Moridin makes a dismissive gesture and turns his attention back to his gingerbread latte. The sweetness is suddenly sickening and he sets the drink back on the table with a grimace. "Sit. How’s Ilyena?"

Rand takes the seat opposite him with an exasperated sigh. “Her name is Elayne. She’s good, thanks for asking. And…” He hesitates. “What about you? How are—” He trails off, clearly deciding that that was not a good question to ask. A quick change of strategy. “Have you found a place already or still crashing at Barid’s?”

Moridin shrugs. “I’m staying with Mazrim for the time being.”

"Mazrim?" Rand repeats incredulously. "As in Mazrim Taim? Please tell me I’m wrong."

"How come?"

Rand makes a vague gesture. “Well, I know Taim, and I know you, and the term ‘mutually assured destruction’ comes to mind…”

Moridin can’t help a wry smirk. “I’m surprised you know such a term.”

Rand rolls his eyes. “Being around you has been an educative experience.” But he doesn’t sound offended, rather almost… fond. “I worry about you.”

The truth of that statement hurts more than Moridin would have expected. “Don’t,” he says, attempting a light tone and — judging by Rand’s expression — failing spectacularly. “I’m fine.”

"No, you’re not," Rand replies, shaking his head sadly, "but I’ve done what I can and if you’re not going to get help, I don’t see how anyone can make you and I have to think of myself, too. I can’t watch you destroy yourself."

"I know. It’s fine."

Silence falls, only to be broken by the text message alert. Moridin looks at his phone. Mazrim. “I asked him to check up on me if I’m not back in a couple of hours.” His mouth twitches in a brief smile. “He’s early.”

"Maybe I’m not the only one who worries," Rand offers.

Moridin gives him a wry look. “I’m not as fragile as you all think. You, Barid, Mazrim. Really.” He stands up and adjusts his jacket, pulls his gloves on. “Regardless, I suppose I’d best get going.”

"You’re not going to finish that?" Rand gestures at the drink.

Moridin shakes his head. “You can have it if you like. I’m not sure it’s hot anymore, though.” He turns to leave. “Give my regards to Ilyena.”

"Her name is Elayne."

"Whatever."

 


	12. Elayne/Aviendha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Elayne/Aviendha; Aviendha is the Dragon Reborn and _saidar_ is the tainted half of the Power.

Elayne Trakand stood beside the Sun Throne, staring coldly at the Tar Valon delegation. She had to clasp her hands behind her back to keep from reaching out to the woman occupying the throne; Aviendha was quick to learn, she had had to be, but Cairhien was a viper’s nest and adding Aes Sedai to the mix did not help matters at all.

“You cannot have Moiraine Damodred,” Aviendha said, her voice cool and clear and commanding. “I do not care what her crimes are. I will need every channeller I can find before the Last Battle. That includes the women.”

“You do not seem to understand—” the leader of the Aes Sedai delegation, a big man called Logain Ablar, began.

“You are the one who doesn’t seem to understand a perfectly clear statement,” the object of the argument, the former false Dragon Moiraine Damodred remarked from her place on the other side of the throne.

“She is a danger to those around her,” another one of the Aes Sedai, a Saldaean fellow wearing a green cape marking his Ajah, remarked dryly. Logain gave him an irritable glance, but before he or Moiraine herself had the chance to talk, Aviendha raised her hand in a silencing gesture.

“I am a danger to those around me,” she said. “You could put me down like the rabid dog you think I am, and other women like me, but that would leave you to fight the Dark One by yourselves. I do not believe you would enjoy that.”

The Saldaean looked like he wanted to argue, but he glanced at Logain and held his peace. Logain sighed. “This is not about you, or even about that school of yours,” he said. “This is about a false Dragon who is responsible for thousands of deaths, numerous ruined villages and towns in both Cairhien and Andor. She must be brought to justice.”

“And you cannot have her,” Aviendha repeated, a touch of impatience in her voice. “This is not a negotiation. Come back when you have something new to say.” She nodded at Lord Dobraine. “Please see that these gentlemen are offered quarters befitting their station.” Then she stood up and started towards the exit without as much as another glance at the Aes Sedai.

Elayne and Moiraine trailed after her like an honour guard — which she supposed they were, right now. But as they passed the Aes Sedai delegation, the Saldaean called out after her.

“Elayne Trakand?”

Elayne stopped and half-turned to face him. “Yes?”

The man held out an envelope towards her. “Your brother requested that I see you get this.”

Elayne inhaled sharply but schooled her face to expressionlessness. “Thank you,” she said and took the letter before hurrying after Aviendha and Moiraine. A letter from Gawyn? Why? The news of her throwing her lot in with the Dragon Reborn must have reached him, but surely he couldn’t think that he could dissuade her or— or change her mind… with a letter, or all things?

Aviendha didn’t speak again until they reached her quarters. Moiraine had left to see to her students — she had enough of them far enough in their training that she was able to delegate a lot and be present at meetings where her political skills were useful, but she preferred not to leave them alone for extended periods of time. Elayne poured a glass on punch as Aviendha discarded her thickly embroidered, blue coat and sat cross-legged on the thick carpet. Elayne handed the glass to her and sat down as well, if slightly less gracefully than the Aiel.

“You’re troubled,” Aviendha said. “What did he say to you?”

Elayne turned the envelope in her hands. “He gave me a letter from my brother,” she replied. “I haven’t heard from him since he went to Tar Valon.”

Aviendha nodded. “I have a first-sister,” she said after a moment. “I have not heard from her since I left the Three-fold Land. I do not know how she would react to…” She waved her hand in a gesture that encompassed the room around them, her fine clothes, even the heron-marks on her palms. “And there is the matter of Callandor. I had to pick it up, nobody else could do it, and yet… It is a sword, if not one meant for swordfighting.”

Elayne stared at her lover; she had never even thought of the implications that wielding Callandor would have for an Aiel. “Avi…”

The other woman smiled and pressed a finger to Elayne’s lips to silence her. “I do what I must.” Her smile widened a fraction as Elayne took her hand. “And I have you, Elayne.”

Elayne returned the smile; it was impossible not to. She glanced at the gilded clock on the mantelpiece. “Two hours until the meeting with the Wavemistress.”

“So it seems,” Aviendha replied. “Do you have any suggestions how that time might best be used?”

“You haven’t had lunch,” Elayne noted. “You need to eat. And so do I, for that matter.”

“And is that all you want to do right now?” the other woman asked, her voice perfectly innocent but with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

“Well…” Elayne said slowly, fighting a blush. “It occurs to me that we both could do with a bit of… unwinding… after dealing with the Aes Sedai. It will do nobody any favours if we go to the meeting with the Sea Folk already irritable and ready to start a war.”

Aviendha grinned. “My thoughts precisely.” She stood up and held out her hand to Elayne, lifting the blonde woman effortlessly to her feet and closing her in a fierce embrace. “I love you, Elayne Trakand,” she whispered into her hair.

“And I love you, my Dragon,” Elayne whispered back. “…Bed? Not that I mind the floor, or the table, or any place really, but we’re less likely to have someone walk in on us in the bedroom.”

Instead of replying, Aviendha chuckled and picked the other woman up and carried her to the bedroom.

 


	13. Taim/Logain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taim/Logain; “You’re not useless.” Set vaguely in the endverse AU.

_They couldn’t have known._ That is all Logain can think of; they couldn’t have known what the Healing would do to Taim. They couldn’t have known that the taint-induced numbness had been protecting him and now that it was suddenly removed…

The carefully constructed facade that was Mazrim Taim lies in ruins, the person underneath barely capable of functioning.

“Why.” The word is not a question; there was not enough inflection in his voice to make it one. “Why was this necessary. Tell me again.”

Nynaeve Sedai answers anyway. “It needed to be done if you’re going to work with us,” she says. “You could have been dangerous.”

The sound that escapes Taim’s throat is far too ragged to be called a chuckle, the twist of his lips too rigid for a smirk. “I _was_ dangerous,” he retorts, somehow finding the energy to raise his voice slightly. “That was my _point_. My entire _purpose_.” 

The look in his eyes, too broken to be called a glare.

He seems to deflate, his strength gone. “But you… you broke me. Now I’m useless. You may as well finish what you started and end this farce.”

Logain starts to say something – _you’re not useless_ – but the words die on his lips. Empty reassurances are not going to work with Taim. “Nobody is ending anything,” he says instead, more harshly than intended.

Nynaeve Sedai casts a cool Aes Sedai look at the both of them, but Logain thinks that even she is disturbed by the effects of her Healing. When she speaks, her voice is not entirely devoid of compassion. “No, master Taim. You have been broken for a long time.”

She takes her leave then, and the silence she leaves behind has the sound of a voiceless scream.


	14. Graendal/Moridin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graendal/Moridin; “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Graendal watches the man standing with his back towards her. She knows she’s treading on thin ice; if she miscalculates now, she may not leave this room alive. The potential gain, however, is greater than the risk.

“Was there truly nothing else you wanted?” she asks. He doesn’t answer. “Nae’blis?”

“You try my patience, Graendal,” he says finally without turning. “I recommend you leave.”

She should do exactly that, but she hears the undertone in his voice that she was hoping for and that makes her press on. “You know that you could make me serve you in any capacity you like. Or any of the Chosen. You have that power; none of us could deny you.”

Seeing Moridin react to the sight of her was initially a shock – Ishamael never did, after all; she had often wondered if he was a man at all – but now Graendal is determined to take full advantage of the situation. She moves closer to him, so close that she can feel his body heat in the perpetual chill of the Blight Fortress, and knows that he can feel hers. She knows that he knows she’s wearing nothing but that barely opaque streith gown.

The tiny, sharp intake of breath has to be the most satisfying sound she has ever heard.

“The only thing I want from you, Graendal, is Aybara’s death,” Moridin says, and there is anger in his voice, but also something far less certain.

“Aybara will die,” Graendal agrees in a sultry voice. She leans in, her breasts brushing against his back, her breath on his neck as she whispers, “But you need not settle for that.”

“Do not touch me,” he says, voice low and dark and taut with rage and desire in almost equal measures.

Graendal considers backing off but decides that she has come too far already. “You don’t know what you’re missing,” she says, bringing her hands up to undo his belt buckle–

_“I said do not touch me!”_

The words echo in the room as he turns to face her. His eyes, black with _saa_ , are the last thing she sees before the world explodes in pain.


	15. Demandred/Taim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demandred/Taim; “You can trust me.”

“You can trust me.” 

The words hang in the air between them, jarring in their almost-naivety, an uncomfortable reminder of how young Taim truly is compared to the Chosen. He seems to think he knows how the world is run, he seems to think himself jaded and cynical and as black-hearted as the worst of them… and then he goes and says something like this.

Demandred doesn’t _trust_. Not anyone; not even Elan, and certainly not someone like Taim, whose bed he just happens to be sharing because it’s convenient.

The silence stretches on for longer than it should and Taim seems to realise his mistake; for all his shortcomings, he’s not stupid. Demandred wishes he didn’t see so much of his younger self in the man. (He especially wishes he didn’t know Elan sees the same.)

He watches the younger man get up and start gathering his clothes from the floor. There doesn’t seem to be anything to say, and neither of them speaks until Taim is fully dressed and opening a gateway back to the Black Tower.

“I’ll send word,” Demandred says.

Taim turns to glance at him over his shoulder, dark eyes wary. He nods curtly, and then he’s gone.


	16. Eval & Joar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eval/Joar; “Of course you’d believe that.” Set shortly after The March of Death.

Eval had to admit they weren’t terribly impressed with the latest addition to the Great Lord’s Chosen. Joar Addam Nessosin was a musician with seemingly no useful skills or contacts, nor did he seem particularly passionate about ending civilisation. But one didn’t argue with Tedronai – at least not over something as ultimately irrelevant as this – and Tedronai seemed fond of the poor sod, so here they were, working together.

Well, Eval supposed it could be worse; they could have been saddled with Mierin. 

“Isn’t it a bit early for wine?” Joar asked, judgement plain in his voice.

Eval raised one perfect eyebrow and took a slow, deliberate sip from their glass before replying. “It’s never too early for wine,” they said. “One would imagine you’d know that, seeing as you’re sleeping with Tedronai.”

Joar started guiltily. “I’m– what now?” he spluttered, eyes darting nervously, as though trying to make sure nobody was close enough to hear.

Eval picked a chocolate-coated strawberry from the plate before them. “Sleeping with Tedronai,” they repeated, enunciating the words with deliberate care.

“Of course you’d believe that,” Joar said, but clearly couldn’t bring himself to attempt to deny it outright. It would have been pointless anyway.

“I wasn’t judging, you know,” Eval added and took a delicate bite of the strawberry. “I wouldn’t say no to him myself.”

Joar snorted. “Is there anyone you _wouldn’t_ bed?”

Anger surged, and Eval couldn’t quite keep it from their voice when they spoke. “You might be surprised.” They emptied the glass and waved for a waiter to refill it. Joar’s upbringing must have been a little archaic in some regards – everybody knew about Mrs. Addam and her eccentricities – but Eval wasn’t going to sit here being slut-shamed by a flaming jumped-up pianist.

Joar seemed to think a change of topic was prudent. “Anyway, he doesn’t drink wine in the morning, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Really?” Eval said. “Funny. He seems like the ‘it’s always wine o’clock’ type of person, and I’m rarely wrong about these things.”

Joar gave a slightly nervous laugh. “I suppose he does, yes.”

Eval was half tempted to pursue the topic of Tedronai’s sleeping and/or drinking habits further – all knowledge was worth having – but they did have more important business to talk about. “Now,” they said, “those names.” 

* * *

 

It took sometime but finally they both agreed on which of the people on Joar’s list were worth contacting and which ones should be eliminated out of hand. Mostly, at least. Eval thought they might take some artistic license in carrying out their orders, but Joar need not worry about that. What he didn’t know, he couldn’t tell Tedronai.

“I suppose you’ll be heading back then,” Eval said as they pushed their chair back and stood up.

“I suppose,” Joar repeated, not sounding terribly enthusiastic about the prospect.

Eval raised an eyebrow. “If you’re tired of his company, you could always join me for the evening.”

Joar looked startled. He began to shake his head in denial, but changed his mind. “And in what capacity would I be _joining_ you, exactly?”

Eval fought the urge to roll their eyes. “In whatever you wish,” they said. “You’re not quite my type, but not on my ‘would not fuck’ list either, if that’s what you mean.”

Joar laughed again, fidgeting slightly. “How…” He seemed to struggle to find the right word. “How, ah, reassuring.”

“So,” Eval said with an eloquent shrug, “if you want a change of… scenery?”

Joar’s shoulders slumped for a moment. “It’s not that I have anything against Tedronai,” he said, though Eval wasn’t asking. “He’s been very generous and, ah, patient. But he can be terribly…”

“Depressing?” Eval suggested.

“…I was going to say ‘disconcerting’,” Joar said, but he didn’t sound as though he disagreed. The he sighed. “Very well. An evening out, then. Whyever not.” He made a face. “None of those clubs that the kids these days go to, though, where you can’t hear your own thoughts. The stuff they play is a crime against music.”

Eval laughed. “Very well. No clubbing.”


	17. Asmodean/Rand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Asmodean/Rand; “You call that music?”

Asmodean woke up to the most peculiar sound. It was faintly reminiscent of a song he’d once known, played on something that might have been flute, but there were too many things wrong with it to begin to count. He turned to see the other person in the tent; Rand al’Thor had woken before him, as always, but instead of going out to play at politics, he seemed to have stayed to grace Asmodean with his presence. And, apparently… _music_. If it could be called that.

“No _car’a’carn_ business this morning?” Asmodean asked after a few moments.

The flute fell silent – thankfully – as al’Thor turned to look at Asmodean. “Not until a little later,” he replied. “You’re always telling me I work too much, so I decided to have the morning for myself.”

“Sounds lovely,” Asmodean said, only a little sarcastic. “If that’s the case, why don’t you come back to bed and quit tormenting the poor flute.”

“Tormenting?” It was impossible to tell whether the younger man was genuinely offended – until a rueful smile spread across his face. “I thought you’d appreciate somebody else providing the music for once.”

“You call that music?” Asmodean winced as he heard his own words; he didn’t mean to sound quite that harsh. “I mean,” he hurried to add, “it’s not that bad but you could do with some lessons…”

Al’Thor merely chuckled. “Oh, I know I’m out of practice,” he said, setting the flute aside. “But lessons don’t sound like a bad idea… if you’re volunteering?” He crossed the small space of the tent and sat on the bedding next to Asmodean.

It was a question, not a command. Asmodean was a little startled to realise that al’Thor probably cared about how he felt and wouldn’t ask it of him if he found the idea of more teaching distasteful. In all honesty, he shouldn’t have been, not anymore. “Maybe,” he said. “I’ll consider it.”

The smile he received in return lit up the younger man’s eyes and Asmodean reached up to gently pull him down for a kiss. The world could wait for the Dragon Reborn for a while longer.


	18. Elan/Lews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elan/Lews; “If I could just get you to understand…”

Lews was no Dreamer and the nightmare that woke him was just that, a nightmare, but one didn’t need the Talent to know that a storm was coming. What Elan had said… No. It couldn’t be true; there was no Dark Lord seeking to overthrow civilisation. That was absurd.

Yet… Lews had known Elan for centuries, rather well as he liked to think, and Elan had never been one to believe in such fairy tale creatures. There must be something behind the man’s claims. The only remaining question was what Lews – and the Hall – was going to do to stop it.

Unable to fall back asleep, Lews got out of bed, planning to fetch a glass of water. As he passed the sitting room, however, he saw somebody on the balcony outside. Somebody he knew. Somebody who might, for all he knew, be here to kill him. He didn’t believe it… No; he didn’t want to believe it, that was different. It was a very real possibility. 

He should call the police.

He really, _really_ shouldn’t open the door.

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” Elan said as Lews opened the door to let him in.

“I don’t,” Lews replied. The lie felt like ashes in his mouth. Truth was he couldn’t take his eyes off the other man. Elan looked rather worse for wear, pale, his eyes bloodshot and red-rimmed, something like soot on his face and clothes. The sight of him was like a punch in the gut.

Elan took a step forward, one hand reaching out as if to touch Lews but then he changed his mind, letting his arm fall to his side again. “Lews, listen to me…”

“I don’t want to listen to you!” Lews snapped, struggling to keep his voice down. If Ilyena woke up… He dreaded to think what might happen. Whatever else happened, he couldn’t lose her, too.

“If I could just get you to understand,” Elan continued stubbornly, taking another step closer.

Lews shook his head tiredly. “You won’t,” he said. “I’ll never agree that what you’re doing is the only way. There’s always another way. Always!”

“If you really think that,” Elan said, “why aren’t you attacking me?” He stopped advancing and spread his arms, standing still as he stared Lews in the eye. “Go on. If you do it now, I won’t fight you.” His voice was almost gentle, his bleak smile almost eager. “Killing me won’t stop it, of course, but you may buy some time. Well? What are you waiting for?” He closed his eyes, that heartbreaking little smile frozen on his lips… and waited.

Choking back a sob, Lews finally shook himself into motion, crossing the distance between them… and drew Elan into a fierce embrace. After a startled moment, Elan slumped against him, shaking as though cold. Lews held him like he’d used to, what seemed like a lifetime ago, and Elan clung to him with all the desperation of a drowning man.

For one dizzying moment Lews dared to hope. He hoped that Elan could be brought to see the errors in his reasoning, that Elan could be made to denounce the Shadow and they could make everything right again, together.

“Please, Elan, let me help you,” he whispered, not trusting his voice not to break…

And Elan laughed. It was not an amused sound, it was tinged with desperation and more than a touch of hysteria, but Lews knew it for the rejection it was even before Elan spoke. 

“Fool,” he said, pushing himself away from Lews. Someone who didn’t know him as well as Lews did might have thought it was easy; Lews could tell that he was barely holding himself together and it broke his heart. “There’s nothing you can help me with. I am only doing what must be done.” He turned to leave, but at the door he looked back at Lews once more. “The end is nigh, Lews Therin. If you do not choose carefully, you will be destroyed. Think on that.”

And before Lews could say anything, the air around Elan shimmered and then he was gone without a trace.


	19. Elan/Barid/Lews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elan/Barid/Lews; “Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“I’m going to have to bother one of you two for Healing,” Barid muttered. “In a bit. No rush.” He didn’t really want to move just yet, and he suspected the same applied to the other two.

 _“You_ need Healing??” Lews replied incredulously. “I think I’ve a broken rib and it’s a wonder I didn’t dislocate something.”

“Oh, come on,” Elan said, sounding almost smug. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“That’s because we were being gentle with you,” Lews replied.

Elan snorted. “You could try being gentle with each other, too, some time,” he said wryly. “You might be pleasantly surprised. Honestly, sometimes I can’t tell whether you’re fucking or wrestling until somebody comes.”

“Don’t mind Lews’ whining,” Barid said. “He likes it rough.”

“I imagine you both do or you wouldn’t keep doing it,” Elan observed. 

That made Lews laugh hard enough that it soon ended in a wheezing  _“ow.”_

“…You really need that Healing?” Elan asked.

“Maybe,” Lews replied with a grunt. 

Elan sighed. “Right, let’s get to it before I fall asleep,” he said. He rolled over to reach for Lews on the other side of Barid and spun the net of Healing, and then did the same for Barid without prompting. “Better?”

“Much, thank you,” Lews said, and Barid made an inarticulate sound that he hoped conveyed agreement.

“Righto,” Elan said, stifling a yawn. He snuggled closer to Barid, his head pillowed on the other man’s chest, and Barid arm comfortably around him. “I trust nobody minds if I pass out for a while. If either of you is awake in an hour or so, do feel free to order food.”

“Will do,” Barid said. “We may even wake you up to eat it.”


	20. Taim/Logain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taim/Logain; “Will you just tell me the truth?”

Logain stared at the so-called M’Hael. They were in the kitchen of Logain’s house in the Black Tower village; Gabrelle, upstairs, had been left with orders not to listen in and right now Logain didn’t care if she had to hold a pillow over her ears to not hear. 

What Taim had just told him… _Light! A Forsaken, pulling the M’Hael’s strings!_

“Are any of your orders actually from the Lord Dragon?” Logain asked. Taim didn’t respond. “Bonding those Aes Sedai? It wasn’t the Lord Dragon’s order, was it?”

“Logain–”

“Dammit, man!” Logain roared, slamming his fist on the table. “Will you just tell me the truth, for once in you life?”

Taim didn’t flinch at the show of aggression; he stared back at Logain with something almost like defiance. “Truth?” he said. “I have told you what I told you now because Moridin wants you Turned, and I do not intend to give him that.” There was a brief pause before he continued, as though forcing the words out, “But I need your help.”

Logain had to sit down. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” Taim snarled.  _“I need your help._ I cannot defy the Forsaken alone.”

Logain raised a hand to silence him. “No, the other thing,” he said. “About… _Turning_ me?”

Taim nodded and his posture slumped wearily for a second. “Yes,” he said. “They recognise that you are a threat, in more ways than one. You’re strong enough to make trouble if you found out what’s going on, and you may cause my loyalty to be compromised.”

Logain felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “You have got to be kidding,” he muttered. He found a bottle of brandy and poured a glass, mainly to distract himself, and then shoved the glass at Taim, who downed it without looking at him or so much as a thanks. Logain drew a deep breath. “Compromise–? _Dammit_ , Taim!”

“That comes as a surprise to you?” Taim asked.

“To be completely flaming honest with you,” Logain said, “I thought you’re sleeping with me because your ego won’t let you bed someone like Mishraile.” He didn’t care if the words stung. Maybe he even hoped that was the case. Taim deserved it.

Taim finally looked up at him again. “Are we _really_ arguing about _feelings_ when there’s a Forsaken looking to take over the Black Tower?”

“Yes!” Logain looked around for something to throw at the wall but the only thing he could find was the bottle of brandy, and that would have been too much of a waste. He let out a frustrated sigh. “No, we’re not. If we survive this, however…”

Taim nodded. “We’ll argue then, got it.”

“Indeed.” Logain took a swig of brandy, then leaned forward with his elbows on the table. “Now, tell me what exactly we’re dealing with.”


	21. Eval/Lews

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eval/Lews; “Shhh, they’ll hear us.” (The prompt was Eval/writer's choice and... this happened.)

The villa was possibly the most ridiculously overblown holiday destination Eval had ever been to, but both Lews Therin and Mierin Eronaile seemed to take it for granted. Must be nice, being from obscenely rich, ridiculously old money families. If they did marry one day, and/or have children together… Eval didn’t want to even think about the privilege the child would be surrounded by.

Yet despite the sheer size of the villa, finding an unoccupied room turned out easier said than done. Even the master suite – which was technically supposed to be Lews and Mierin’s – was occupied by the time the trio got there, and Lews had to do some quick talking to stop Mierin from setting the sheets on fire around Elan Morin and Barid Bel.

Eval could sort of see what Lews saw in Mierin, but damn, the woman was a health hazard.

“So,” Eval said, “are we going to continue looking for a room or just… stay here and watch?”

“Shhh, they’ll hear us!” Mierin hissed, much louder than Eval had been speaking, a self-fulfilling prophecy if there ever was one. 

There was a muffled oath that sounded like Barid, and then Lews was herding both Eval and Mierin back to the corridor, displaying uncharacteristic tact. They kept running until they rounded a corner, just in case, but it didn’t sound like anybody was following. Eval leaned against the wall, panting, frowning at their feet; they’d lost one of their shoes in the mad scramble to escape Barid’s wrath. With a mental shrug, they kicked the other one off as well. Walking with stiletto heels was not a problem even while inebriated; walking with _one_ stiletto heel while inebriated was a recipe for disaster.

“…Anyway, do you guys want to keep looking for a room or just forget it?” Eval asked after a moment.

Lews and Mierin exchanged a look. “This was your idea in the first place, Lews,” Mierin said, voice steadily rising as she went on. “If you can’t find us a room in your own flaming villa, you can take your threesome and stuff it, you know, you both can just go join Elan and Barid since they seem to have _appropriated our bedroom!”_

“Hey,” Lews replied, somewhere between irritable and reconciliatory. “You were just as into it just a moment ago, but of course we can skip it if you changed your mind…”

Personally, Eval wouldn’t have minded Mierin’s suggestion – at least until they remembered that Barid was unlikely to agree after the interruption. “Do let me know if you ever make up your minds,” Eval began but was cut off as Mierin let out an inarticulate growl and shoved them forcefully at Lews.

“You two have so much fun!” she all but screamed. “I’m going to sleep. Alone!”

Eval looked up at Lews, who’d instinctively caught them. “Well,” Eval said.

“Well,” Lews replied in the thoughtful way of the drunk.

“This is quite the plot twist.”

“I know right.” Then Lews smiled. “But you know, I’m good to carry on without Mierin, too, if you are?”

Eval returned the smile. “Oh, absolutely.”


	22. Mierin/Ilyena

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mierin/Ilyena; things you didn’t say at all

Mierin leans on the door frame as she watches the other woman methodically collect her clothes around the bedroom. ‘ _Why?’_ she wants to ask but she knows the answer and remains silent.

Ilyena’s suitcase is too small, it’s already filled to bursting, or maybe it’s just that over the past six months she’s moved more of her things to Mierin’s place than either of them could remember. She picks up a scarf, looks at Mierin, frowning. “Was this mine or yours?” 

Mierin shrugs. It’s Ilyena’s, technically, but Mierin has worn it more often.

Ilyena folds it carefully, but instead of stuffing it into the suitcase she places it on the bed. “Keep it if you like. I’ve got too many scarves as it is.”

Mierin doesn’t say anything. She’s not sure what would come out if she tried, and they’ve had all the relevant conversations already. It’s just not going to work, not with Ilyena also dating Lews, and maybe dating Barid, and Mierin doesn’t even know what the deal with the three of them and Elan is.

Ilyena finally seems to decide she’s found all her things and wrestles the suitcase closed. She straightens and, holding the suitcase, walks over to Mierin. There’s a heartbeat of awkward silence. “Look…”

“You’re not going to tell me you still love me or something?” Mierin asked, trying to harden her voice but managing to sound just weary.

Ilyena shakes her head slowly. “What good would it do?” she asks, clearly a rhetorical question. She draws a deep breath. “I just wanted to say I don’t blame you. It’s okay, I get it. Not everybody is okay with sharing. You don’t have to be. But I’m just not monogamous, and…” A little, sad smile curves the corners of her mouth. “And that, I guess, is that.”

Mierin nods. “Yeah.” It takes all her willpower to not reach out to touch the other woman. It takes all of it and then some, to keep from begging her to stay.  _‘We could work something out. I could change. I could try. I love you.’_ But she knows herself, she knows the lie in that desperate plea and she has more respect for Ilyena – for them both – than to drag this on any longer than necessary. She forces a smile. “Take care.”

Ilyena’s answering smile seems considerably more genuine. “I will. You too, okay?” She makes a move as if to hug Mierin, but changes her mind, probably for the best. Then she’s out of the door.


	23. Elan/Barid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elan/Barid; things you didn’t say at all

It’s five a.m. and the world is ending. 

Elan Morin Tedronai stands on top of a skyscraper, watching the lights of the city below. Somewhere to the west a thick column of smoke is rising to the heavens; he can’t see the flames at this distance, nor the frantic efforts that are surely being made to put out the fire, but the thought makes him smile.

The fire, one major point of destruction, feels analogous to the state of the world at large; things are going up in flames and small-minded people are scrambling to contain the damage.

Barid would be there, too. Not putting out that single fire in a suburban district of M’Jinn, but somewhere, fighting to contain the larger fire that will soon consume the world. The Betrayer of Hope closes his eyes and spreads his arms, letting the wind toss his cape back; at this height the wind is strong enough that he could lean into it and not fall. 

“I could give you a push,” a voice says behind him, “if you’d like?” 

Slowly, Elan turns his back to the fall, to face the intruder. “The thought of leaving you to deal with the fallout of yesterday without me is amusing, I confess.”

Eval Ramman shrugs delicately, making their way towards him until they’re but a few paces away. “I doubt the Great Lord would be impressed, but hey, if you’re willing to take that risk…” They smirk and make a gesture as though pushing something away.

Elan steps away from the edge, just in case. He’s never been fond of heights, anyway, and even less of falling. “What news?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Oh, you know.” The answer is decidedly glib and dismissive. “Chaos here, riots there, Lews Therin has his hands full just trying to contain the panic in the Hall, let alone in the streets now that the word is getting out…” A perfectly shaped eyebrow arches slightly. “They managed to keep it quiet for longer than I expected, I’ll give them that.”

“They’re not entirely useless at what they do,” Elan replies wryly.

Irritation flashes in his companion’s eyes before turning into cool amusement. There’s a cruel edge to their voice when they speak again. “Your _boyfriend_ will be looking for you,” Eval says, affecting indifference but unable to hide the savage pleasure as the words hit their mark.

“Barid Bel means nothing to me,” Elan says curtly. The words taste like ashes in his mouth.

Eval shakes their head, laughing. “You’re a bloody horrible liar. How exactly _are_ you the de facto leader of the Chosen, anyway?”

That’s not a question and so Elan doesn’t bother with an answer. The thought of Barid looking for him as the world crumbles is like a punch in the gut. _He’ll join us sooner or later,_ he thinks. _It’s inevitable._ But it feels too much like trying to convince himself.

He should have confided in Barid earlier. Maybe he could have made the other man see the truth, maybe–

But no. It wouldn’t have made a difference; Barid needs to find his own way to the Shadow. And when he does… Elan will be waiting.

He looks back at Eval, who’s still watching him with undisguised curiosity. But Eval doesn’t ask; they know better than that. “If you’re ready to join us in the real world again, Lanfear wants a word with you.”

“Lanfear?” Elan repeats, frowning.

Eval shrugs. “That’s what Mierin calls herself these days. You have a new name, she wanted one too.”

“I see.” Elan isn’t sure he wants to have a word with Mierin, but it probably can’t be helped. “Very well; lead on.”


	24. Elan/Barid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barid/Elan; “I did a pregnancy test.”

Barid wandered into the kitchen, looking – for the lack of a better word – goofy. Elan looked up from the tomato he was chopping and raised an inquiring eyebrow. “Anything I should know about?”

“So I, er, did a pregnancy test,” Barid replied.

Elan stared. “…Is ‘ _why’_  a question I want to be asking?” he asked, an entirely rhetorical question; as a cis man, Barid  couldn’t exactly get pregnant in the first place. “Last I checked, I was the uterus owner here, and even me getting pregnant after three years on HRT would be pretty damn far-fetched.”

Barid shrugged. “I blame Lews,” he said. “It seemed funnier last night.”

Elan snorted and resumed chopping the salad ingredients. “I bet it did. I’m still somewhat in the dark as to why you thought you should update me on this, but okay.”

Barid shuffled awkwardly to the refrigerator to pick up a can of cola. “I may have posted the results on Facebook,” he muttered. “So I thought I should mention this just in case Ilyena or Mierin thinks to ask you what it was all about. I mean, they might think I was talking about _you_.”

“Right,” Elan replied, already mentally composing answers to such potential questions. “Now if you want to do something useful, go and fetch the salad dressing, I forgot to buy any.”


	25. Conail Northan/Perival Mantear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conail Northan/Perival Mantear; "I'm flirting with you."

The ball was held in honour of the seventh nameday of the royal twins, the Daughter-Heir Egwene and the First Prince Gawyn, but the evening was turning to night and the birthday boy and girl had been whisked off to bed already. This didn’t disappoint Perival, the High Seat of House Mantear, who had by some twist of fate been stuck regaling the twins with stories for nearly an hour before being rescued by their nurse’s stern command. 

The Queen Elayne herself had seemed amused by the turn of events, and Perival supposed he didn’t mind too much, he liked kids well enough and if this gained him the Queen’s favour, he could live with it. There was still plenty of the night left to spend with people his age…

“Lord Perival,” a warm voice disrupted his thoughts and a firm hand on his arm halted his progress towards the dance floor.

Perival smiled as he turned to face Conail Northan – and was a little startled to discover that he had grown taller than his friend somewhere during the past six months since they had last seen each other. “Lord Conail,” he replied with a mock-formal bow. “It’s been too long.”

The merry brown eyes lit up as the other man grinned at him. “So it has,” Conail agreed. Then he grimaced slightly. “Are you _ever_ going to stop getting taller, damn you?”

Perival laughed. “I’m not sure it’s something I can just decide, but if it makes you happy, I can try?”

Unable to keep up the grumpy act, Conail joined in on the laughter. “That would make me very happy indeed,” he said. “I rather like being able to look you in the eye without straining my neck…” He took Perival by the arm as naturally as though the past six months apart had never existed. “Come, let’s get you a drink.”

*

There was drinking, and there was dancing, but for the most part Perival was happy to just enjoy the company of his best friend again. They had written to each other, of course, but as much as he treasured every sentence in Conail’s angular handwriting, it was never the same as talking face to face.

They had made their way out to the gardens and were sitting on a bench under a tree that was beginning to shed its colourful leaves. It was perhaps a little cold, especially after the temperature in the ballroom, but Conail didn’t seem bothered and so Perival decided that he could very well tough it out, too. At least until he could think of a way to say what he wanted to say. Which might take all night, realistically speaking, but if that was the case then so be it. He wasn’t going to walk away again without letting Conail know how he felt.

“I’ve truly missed you,” he finally blurted out, quite out of context and unrelated to what they had been previously talking about.

Conail looked a little surprised by the sudden  confession, but not in a bad way. “And I you, Perival.”

The way Conail said his name made Perival’s heart skip a beat. “And I just wanted to make sure that– that you know that I value your companionship to the highest degree,” he went on, speaking fast to get all the words out but thankfully without stammering too much. “And I hope that–” It was then that the thin clouds slid away, revealing the bright near-full moon and the light brought out the amber specks in Conail’s eyes and the sight was so beautiful that Perival completely forgot what he was saying.

“You hope… what?” Conail prompted, smiling. 

Perival shook his head. “Ah, I hope you can forgive me for saying this but you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Conail’s smile widened a fraction. “Perival Mantear, are you flirting with me?”

“I…” Perival could feel his face turning a shade of red that might put Queen Elayne’s gown to shame. He took a deep breath. “Yes, I believe I am flirting with you. Trying to, at least,” he had to add in the name of honesty.

Conail laughed softly. “Well, that’s a relief,” he said before Perival could take offense.

Perival blinked. “Is it?”

Conail nodded solemnly. “It is,” he said, “and if you’ll allow me, I would show you why.”

“Yes,” Perival breathed, nodding vigorously. “Yes, of course.”

“Thank you.” Conail leaned forward and took Perival’s head between his hands and kissed him. His lips were soft and gentle and the kiss was almost hesitant though Conail certainly didn’t lack experience in such matters. He withdrew again and looked at Perival, and his smile held equal amounts of apprehension and joy. “Light, I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” he whispered.

Perival had to laugh our of sheer delight. He took both of Conail’s hands into his. “Then… if you don’t mind, would you do it again?”

Conail was more than happy to comply.


	26. Eval & Joar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eval/Joar; "You don't have to stay."

The woman’s screams echoed in the bunker complex. They could have sound-warded the room where the procedure was done but they had – evidently – chosen not to. Eval wasn’t judging that decision; it was none of their business. Drawing it out like that, though? Yeah, okay, maybe they were judging, just a little bit.

Eval lounged against a wall, inspecting their nails. It was next to impossible to get a proper manicure anymore. _This is what it means to end the civilisation,_ they thought wryly. _Thanks, Tedronai._

Finally the door to the interrogation room opened, and a sobbing and wailing woman, barely recognisable as Mrs. Addam, was dragged away by two Myrddraal. Eval couldn’t say they were impressed with that part, but again, it was none of their business and they had no right or authority to interfere. They might have considered doing so anyway – better to end one’s life as Trolloc fodder than as a Myrddraal’s plaything – if not for the sight of the man who walked out of the room a bit behind the trio.

Joar Addam was pale, dark hair slightly in disarray in a way that might – no, definitely _would_ – have been attractive under most other circumstances. There was a wild look in his eyes, though he did his best to appear unaffected; his hand shook as he raised it to wipe his face with a lacy handkerchief.

Eval approached the man cautiously, keeping their expression neutral. “All done?”

Joar gave a start, only now seeming to notice them. “Yes, ah. Yes. All done indeed, quite done.” If he was aiming for nonchalance, he missed by a mile.

Eval wasn’t surprised; few people could condemn their mother to a fate worse than death and feel nothing. “Care for a drink?” they asked, casually reaching out to steer the man towards the exit, decidedly not in the same direction where his mother had been taken.

“Drink?” Joar sounded faintly surprised, but didn’t shake off the hand on his shoulder or resist the attempt to guide him. “You mean you can actually get something alcoholic out here?”

Eval chuckled. “Not in general, no, but I’m prepared,” they replied. “Come along, now.”

 

* * *

 

Eval’s room was not much different from any other living quarters in the compound; their rank gave them a separate bedroom and a work space, as well as their own bathroom, but comforts were few and aesthetic elements next to nonexistent. They’d covered the concrete walls with purple curtains and stuffed a narrow bookshelf in one corner of the bedroom in addition to the one in the office room.

Joar looked at the bookshelf like he’d never seen one before, but made no comment as he slumped on the bed. Eval reached under the bed and, after a brief search, pulled out a bottle of liquor. They sat cross-legged on the floor and took a moderate mouthful of the drink before handing the bottle over to Joar. Joar accepted the bottle without a word and drank before handing the bottle back with a grimace. “What is this stuff?” he asked.

Eval shrugged. “Something alcoholic,” they replied. “If it’s not good enough…”

“Ah, shut up,” Joar said with a groan and reached for the bottle again. Some colour had returned to his face but the bleakness remained, and something bordering on hysteria that he was so far succeeding in keeping tightly leashed. He looked around as he passed the bottle back to Eval again. “You know, I’m sure this is precisely the same as my room but it looks so much nicer. Where’d you get the curtains? Not the quartermaster, I bet.”

Eval raised an eyebrow; if this was nicer, what did Joar’s own quarters look like? On the second thought, they didn’t want to know. “No, not the quartermaster,” they replied. “You could say it’s spoils of war.” They gave a confidential smirk. “I may have looted a fabric store.”

“…Right.” Joar clearly didn’t know whether they were being serious. “And I suppose that’s why you’re dressed like Tedronai and Aellinsar’s wardrobes had an illicit affair?” So, he did have some sense of humour left in him, though Eval couldn’t take any commentary he made on other people’s fashion choices seriously when he was still wearing velvets and falls of lace in the middle of a blasted world war.

The description was amusing, though, Eval had to give him that. “I’m being practical,” they replied smoothly, “unlike someone I could point out.” No reaction. “Someone sitting on my bed, drinking my liquor…”

“Speaking of which,” Joar interjected and reached for the bottle again. Eval hesitated a moment before handing it over, but they could always find more and if Joar was actually planning on getting drunk, well, that was his prerogative. Joar looked as though he could tell what they were thinking but didn’t care as long as he got to keep drinking. “Not saying you don’t look good,” he continued, apparently still hung up on the topic of clothes. “You just never struck me as the cargo pants and tank tops kind of guy. Person,” he amended quickly though Eval had not been about to get offended.

Eval chuckled. “You’ve clearly never been to a butch club.”

“You’re certainly right about that,” Joar replied, but there was barely any of the expected condescension in his voice.

 

* * *

 

It was well past midnight by the time Eval was walking Joar back to his own quarters. They’d not talked much, certainly not about what had passed earlier in the day, but Joar had certainly accomplished his goal of getting drunk; his alcohol tolerance must have nosedived during the war because Eval could remember him being able to drink much more than that with next to no visible effect. Now he was… well. He was walking and mostly steady, though Eval kept a hand at his elbow just in case. They were nearly there when Joar stumbled and, being taller if not significantly heavier, nearly pulled Eval down with him.

When he didn’t instantly get up, Eval crouched beside him. “Hey,” they said. “Just a little further. Or I could carry you but that won’t be particularly romantic, so if you don’t mind I’d rather pass.”

Joar let out what sounded like a wheezing laugh. “Romantic?”

Eval shrugged. “I don’t know, if you were thinking of bridal carry or something like that. Not happening, you’re too bloody tall.”

Joar sat up, but instead of getting all the way to his feet, he slumped against Eval, still shaking with silent laughter. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve absolutely no desire to be carried to bed by you. No offence.”

“None taken,” Eval muttered. They couldn’t be sure anymore if the man was laughing or crying and they didn’t particularly want to be dealing with the latter. 

With some effort — and a little help from the One Power — Eval lifted Joar up to his feet and maneuvered him the rest of the way to his room. He collapsed on the bedroom floor and wouldn’t budge, and after briefly contemplating just leaving him there, Eval sat down and gathered the wreck of a musician in their arms.

“I hate her so, _so bloody much_ ,” Joar muttered, in a voice thick from crying and the alcohol, once his sobs subsided.

He probably expected some kind of a response but Eval had nothing; their own parents had not been channellers and had been dead for several hundred years already from natural causes. “Yeah,” they said eventually, stroking Joar’s hair. “Come, let’s get you to bed. I’ll stay until—”

“You don’t have to stay,” Joar interjected.

Eval snorted. “Oh, I know,” they began but Joar cut them off again.

“No, I mean _you don’t have to stay_ ,” he said. “I’m fine. Well, I’m. Safe. Whatever. I’m not going to…” He made a vague gesture. “You know. I’m not Elan Morin.”

Well, that was certainly true. Eval sighed, leaning back against the cold concrete wall. “Yeah, I know.” The room really did need something; it looked like a holding cell, for Light’s sake. “Shit, I’m sorry.” They were so used to having to keep an eye on Tedronai that they’d just automatically entered suicide watch mode. This was not what they’d signed up for when they’d joined the Shadow, yet somehow it had happened. They rubbed at their face, then looked back at Joar. “Well, this is mildly awkward.”

Joar gave a shaky chuckle. “You don’t say.” He got up just enough to roll into bed. “Alright, I’m in bed now. Good enough?”

Eval stared at him. “Yeah,” they said eventually, getting up as well. “Sure. Whatever. Good night.”


End file.
